


Cheat

by containsquinine



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur's a sullen mess in the mornings but aren't we all, Character Study, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Recovery, or trying to stay recovered I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:37:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/containsquinine/pseuds/containsquinine
Summary: Arthur just wants to get warm, but Eames fights dirty.Warning: potentially triggering, heed the tags





	Cheat

Eames wakes him up with food. 

Arthur’s knee jerk reaction is to knock the plate away, but he is so tired all he manages is a glare at Eames before he burrows further into the covers. Maybe the bed will do him a favor and swallow him whole one of these days. Unfortunately, the sullen morning routine doesn’t phase the Brit anymore, nor do Arthur’s various glares. Eames puts the plate on the nightstand with a small clink and sits on the edge of the bed, a warm and comforting presence at his back. 

“Go away,” Arthur grumbles. What he really means is take the food away. He wants Eames back in bed with him, a veritable heater year round. Their flat is always freezing in May. 

“You need to eat,” Eames says. The way he says it brooks no quarter, and Arthur shivers at it, the latent threat hiding at the bottom of his throat like a peach pit. 

“Not hungry,” he says from where his face is smushed under a pillow. If he buries himself under enough blankets maybe Eames will forget he is there. 

Arthur curls up around his empty stomach like a pill bug and jumps when he feels one of Eames’ hands against the thin skin of his back. The hand skates up under his thermal sleep shirt that does nothing to keep him warm and begins to rub his back.

“That’s cheating,” Arthur groans. He wriggles closer to Eames like a snake looking for a sunny rock. 

“I made you weird healthy bread,” Eames says, hand still rubbing in soothing circles. 

“You made bread?” Arthur asks incredulously. It’s a wonder Eames didn’t burn the flat down. 

He sits up, rolls to face Eames, and immediately zeroes in on the plate. Eames picks it up and offers it to him, a small, hopeful look in his eyes that punches Arthur right in the gut. 

On the plate sits something Arthur guesses could be bread, though it seems suspiciously seed and nut based. He sniffs and detects no whiff of treacherous wheat. The bread is topped with a smear of goat cheese, sliced tomato and avocado, garnished with a small heap of sprouts. Arthur tries to think around the part of his brain screaming at him about fat, cholesterol, sugar, and carbs to see what is in front of him: a healthy meal. Balanced, with nutrients he needs. He can eat it. He will eat it. 

“I’m not eating the bread or the cheese,” is what his mouth says instead, and Arthur flushes angrily. He swallows and slowly looks up at Eames, whose expression is the exact same as before Arthur spoke. 

“Why don’t you get dressed and come into the living room and see. The bread has no refined sugar in it. It has a lot of good protein, and the fat in it is fat you need for your heart, hair, and skin, Arthur,” Eames says. 

He is telling Arthur what he already knows, trying to give Arthur a way to give his brain permission. 

Eames leaves him to it, and when Arthur finally emerges in the living room, bundled in one of Eames’ sweaters, Eames is stretched on the sofa. Soft sunlight dapples the room, picking out gold highlights in Eames’ hair. There is music playing quietly and Eames works away at the crossword in the paper, pencil a steady scratch between songs. It’s so domestic it pinches something in Arthur’s chest as he wonders what it could be like, if he were a real person and not just a cheap imitation of one. They could cook together. Eat together. He breathes in sharply and tells himself not to go there. 

The plate is on the coffee table, along with a knife, fork, and paper napkin. It’s just like Eames to realize when he is slipping, to realize how much worse it gets right after a job, particularly a messy one. Arthur tries not to wonder at his own predictability or where Eames hid the scale, tries to check his urge to pull up Eames’ cardigan and shirt and slide fingers over him, wondering, wondering, why Arthur can’t be the same. 

Arthur folds himself on the sofa next to Eames, picks up the plate, and uses the knife and fork to neatly cut the toast. First into halves, then quarters, then eighths, sixteenths. He stops himself at sixteen, can feel Eames’ eyes on him, and calmly puts down the knife. Arthur tells himself to breathe. His hands are shaking, but only a little. He could still fire a gun if he needed to, could still hit the mark ten out of ten times. 

He spears a sixteenth of the toast and puts it in his mouth before his mind can force his arms to reject it. He chews slowly, counting automatically, but he loses count at thirty as he is overwhelmed by the rich, nutty flavor of the bread. It is light. He can taste honey, can taste sunrise and warmth. It tastes good. Fear lights through him wildly, and Arthur peeks to see if Eames is still watching. He isn’t. As Arthur watches Eames through his lashes, he erases an answer on the crossword, brow furrowed in concentration as he writes a different word in its place. Arthur counts to fifty in his head and then back down to zero. 

Arthur’s stomach burbles, and he manages to eat the entirety of the toast by the time both sides of the second vinyl have run their course, and Eames has finished the crossword read the rest of the paper. Eames takes Arthur's empty plate into the kitchen when he rises to refill his tea, and deposits a full mug in Arthur’s hands on his way back. A thick curl of ginger wafts up from the mug and Arthur hums happily in his chest as he breathes the steam. 

Eames sits down closer to him, now that the morning ordeal is over, and looks at Arthur. 

“I liked your bread,” Arthur says quietly, and Eames beams at him. 

“It’s nothing at all to make, I’ll show you,” Eames says toothily, smile almost too big for his face. 

Arthur puts the mug down and gives in, the fight gone out of him. He lets himself curl up on the sofa, head pillowed on one of Eames’ thighs, sleepy with the mornings exertions. He rucks up Eames' shirt and curls a hand against the bare skin of a hip. Arthur strokes the skin there softly, apologizing for his earlier behavior. As he drifts off he feels Eames tug the blanket down off the back of the couch and drape it over him, enveloping him with warmth. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
